Unforgettable
by Pudding Earl
Summary: Broken pieces were never meant to fit back together. With people, it was much the same way. Though one may try to piece it all back together, the broken shards will only cut through the skin, bringing blood and pain that only time can heal. Perhaps the pain of yesterday may be forgotten, but the scars will remain... for eternity, as Giotto finds out. DaeG, G02.


**UNFORGETTABLE**

CHAPTER 1

"Don't."

The pathetic, sickening word slipped from his lips, a shudder running through him as he gripped onto those white hands once more, hold tightening around delicate fingers, threatening to crush bone and sever thin muscle. But now could he? The chest that had once housed his heart was a pitiful dark and empty cavern now, lacking the warmth and life that an emotion he could no longer name once provided. Happiness had enveloped him silently, weaving about him the deadly web that he was now helplessly stuck in. Warm hands slipped from his gloved fingers, and he felt them cup his face for the last time, and her sweet breath on his. Golden locks came into his downcast view, and as he lifted his gaze, something wet dropped onto his face. Tears were streaking down her beautiful face, wet tracks cutting through her delicate smile. Azure eyes, deep with thoughts, with words unspoken and drowning in tears, came into view.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and Daemon could feel the remnants of himself falling apart with her words. It was done, and there was nothing he could do about it. A wry laugh left him, empty and echoing through the sitting room. Fear gripped him like it never had before, but Daemon felt nothing. One day, perhaps, he would feel it. Feel his world toppling, collapsing, and crumbling beneath his feet. He brushed Elena's hands off of his face, and a chaste kiss was placed on her forehead. A cool spring breeze swept in from the French windows of the sitting room, calmly blowing golden locks from murky blue-green.

"I can only forgive you." Pulling off a glove, Daemon's hand brushed away the salty drops adorning Elena's face, expression unreadable. A dangerous glint that those darkened eyes had not had for a long time reappeared, and the golden afternoon sun was swept behind a cloud. There was a pause; a pause of silent anticipation, and then Daemon drew away. Cold air filled the vacuum, and a dazed and confused Elena watched a man who had shared an unbreakable bond until a few minutes ago walk out the door, the bright afternoon sun swallowing the shadow of his presence.

Elena's graceful figure collapsed back against the parlor sofa, allowing soft pillows to cushion and comfort her. There was a silent opening of a door, and then an elegant sigh before warm hands buried into her hair, blonde mixing with blonde. A heartwarming heat buried itself back into her chest, and beautiful golden eyes met hers. "I'm sorry it had to end that way," a silky-smooth voice said in consolation. A poor excuse for a poor situation. But what else was there to say?

"It had to go, sooner or later," Elena replied, the ghosts of longing and regret soaked in her voice. "I… I just didn't want to maim him."

A thoughtful silence followed, and then, Elena felt strong arms wrap around her, comforting and warm. "You did what you had to." A few moments later, he drew away, leaving her to her own thoughts. Lost in her thoughts, she didn't hear the sound of porcelain clinking together, nor did she hear the sound of hot tea pouring from the teapot. Daemon. What was- what was he going to do? Elena knew Daemon too well - knew the lows of his unpredictable moods, the twisted state of his mind when situation allowed no compromise, and the ruins that was behind his façade of a smooth, suave man. Had she managed to rebuild some of that in the time they had spent? Or was the past six years completely wasted in those few minutes?

"I'm still worried," Elena finally said, bright blue eyes meeting with dark orange again before the latter disappeared behind the brim of his teacup. "I know I ask too much of you already, but could you-"

"Consider it done." There was a delicate _clink_ of porcelain once again. "I should be going... keep in touch?"

"Already?"

"Work awaits me, as always. One day, when it's done, I'll extend my visits." Somehow, Elena doubted it. His work was never-ending, and if anything, only stacked on until infinity.

"See you soon, then," Elena said, and a hand waved in reply. A familiar, playful irritation took hold of her again, and she laughed softly. "Could you at least _attempt_ to comb down your hair for the wedding?"

A soft chuckle accompanied the sound of the door opening. "I'll try. But no promises."

- x -

Daemon Spade.

It wasn't a particularly common name, Giotto thought to himself. But that wasn't to say that it wasn't well known. Giotto had heard the name only too many times, whispered around dinner parties and mentioned briefly among negotiation tables. His fingers brushed by the name on the paper in front of him, which was a mess of elegant scrawling that was the product of countless hours of convincing (well, towards the end it leaned towards nagging) Alaude to cough up some information on the man. Giotto himself had only heard rumors, and the actual information did not reveal much else to him. The Spade family were actually aristocratic in nature, though that was not much of a surprise to him. The majority of the family were in France and spread out in Germany, but the family name itself was based in Scotland. They had a long history of producing military geniuses – but also some less-than-sane ones. Just as he was contemplating over the matter once more, the door clicked open, and dark orange eyes looked up at a redhead of tall stature.

"G." Giotto's fingers slyly slipped Alaude's notes under a mess of paperwork regarding the building of a new horse stable, hoping that the other wouldn't see. Dark red eyes missed nothing, however, and calloused fingers latched onto his wrist, threatening to grab at the precious paper buried beneath.

"What's this?" G asked suspiciously, eyeing the papers as he spoke. He knew from experience that there was rarely anything good involved in the hiding of papers when it came to Giotto. It had been a habit long nurtured, from the time they were kids and Giotto would get notes home about his ditching school. Now it was usually some important intelligence or casualty report that Giotto would rather G not catch wind of.

Giotto smiled (a little too brightly, perhaps) and his fingers pushed the note deeper in the pile. "Nothing much. What are you doing here?"

G wasn't about to give up yet. His stubbornness, though suppressed over the years, had not diminished. "Checking up on you before you do something stupid. Was that one of Alaude's love letters?"

"Haha." Giotto wriggled his wrist free of G's hold and waved the paper in front of G's face for a moment before stuffing it into his back pocket. "There, now that you've seen Alaude's passionate writing, will you let it be?"

G clicked his tongue. "What kind of information were you asking him to pick up for you this time?"

Giotto shrugged. "The usual. Did you get a reply from Bishop Knuckle yet?"

"Not quite. He's busy as it is, and he seems to think that he has to reply in person all the time- which is quite impossible in the current conditions." It had been exceptionally rainy in Italy as of late, delaying travel even from within the Italian peninsula. It was January, after all, and that seemed natural enough, though inconvenient. Giotto only nodded in reply. Well, hopefully, there would be word from the clergyman soon. G continued, "and the last time you asked Alaude for information, we barely made it out of the house alive from that explosion. Remember?" The ordeal was clearly written on Giotto's subdued expression, but then a smile broke through.

"But then we gained the full support of Cozarto's Shimon family, didn't we?" The smile seemed a bit smug now, and G shook his head in defeat. It was no use. Giotto had a knack for getting himself into all sorts of trouble through the years, each more dangerous than the one before, but somehow, things turned out well in the end through a combination of skill and luck. Perhaps more so of the latter when Giotto was involved. Seeing that he couldn't pry any more information from his best friend, G reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny golden object, the actual reason for his visit. Giotto raised an eyebrow as his gaze fell on the golden pocketwatch. "What's this?"

G's expression turned from one of glee to one of surprise. "Don't tell me you forgot your birthday again." The redhead received only a blank look in reply.

"It's my birthday?"

"_Yes_, damn it!" This wasn't the first time this had happened, if G's memory didn't fail him. The flawless image that Giotto presented to the fairer gender always disintegrated when the man buried himself in his work- which was often. Too often. "Happy birthday." _Happy birthday, you idiot._

"I..." Giotto picked up the pocketwatch and examined it, feeling the cool metal beneath his fingertips. A pocketwatch. It was an interesting gift, and thoughtful. Giotto had a rather amusing (if not outright funny) image of G buying it and yelling at the store clerk to handle it lightly or something like that. That was his best friend, as well. Giotto watched the delicate gold second hand tick for a few moments before shutting the top with a light _click. _"Thank you."

"Now you don't have an excuse to be late for meetings." G said, grinning.

Giotto chuckled lightly, slipping the new pocketwatch into his pocket. "I wouldn't be so sure about that." The Vongola boss was an expert in excuses, legitimate or not. "I'm getting old." Twenty-five. It was something to put into perspective. Four years, now. Four years since Giotto had that crazy, idealistic idea, and four years had he and G pursued it, occasionally assisted by the pious and enthusiastic Bishop Knuckle or the elusive Alaude when Giotto's old buddy, Cozarto, couldn't be contacted (and that was often, despite the alliance between the two families). They had gone far, but at the same time, Giotto felt like he was missing something. Something that he was unconsciously searching for, and yet was afraid to approach in their vigilance group.

"Pfft. Then I'm ancient." G was nearly two years older than Giotto, though age had long ceased to be a factor in their friendship. "I should probably get going. There's a few things that I ought to sort out."

Giotto nodded in understanding. "See you later."

"Take a break, alright?" G asked as he neared the door, hand on the door handle. Giotto's gaze softened as the door closed shut. G often made it sound like he didn't _want_ one-which he did, and badly. But life couldn't was never that easy on him. Hands slipped to his back pocket, and he drew out the slip of paper again, smiling thoughtfully.

"Daemon Spade." The name was alien on his tongue, containing a pronunciation that put an unnatural twist to his tongue. An alien name for an alien man. He read over Alaude's note once more, and then smiled before running out the door. G let out a surprised at Giotto's sudden tackle from behind, glad that he didn't let his reflexes take over and twisted his best friend's arm or something.

"Pack your things. We're going to Venice," Giotto chirped, ignoring the confusion on the redhead's face before turning around and heading down the hallway, presumably to pack. _Oh, God_. "Be out the door in half in hour, alright?" Somehow, G was sure there was a hint of sadism in his boss's smile. Giotto knew better than anyone else just how the rolling and pitching of ships could do to the stocky Italian. Knew too well, apparently.

G made himself a mental note to personally _cut _Alaude the next time he leaked information to Giotto.

- x -

Daemon wasn't exactly an elusive person, but that didn't mean he didn't have friends. Most aristocrats angered and irked him to a breaking point, but at the same time, he didn't particularly like mixing in with the common people, either. And, as it was, he had personal reasons for not mixing in with that lot. Elena had been one of his few connections to the true aristocratic life other than his family, who rejected him to extremes that Daemon doubted words could describe. He was a kite whose sole thread had been cut, leaving him dangling in the wind before trailing to the ground. An exasperated breath escaped from his lips, and fingers closed around his glass again, and the liquor was drained in little time. There was little to think about, and even less to say when no one else was there.

Perhaps this was what loneliness was.

He had an insane headache going. The pounding of blood through his ears was unbearable- or perhaps that was just the beating of his heart, if it even existed anymore. Huh. That was doubtful, with the way things had been in the past week or so. Daemon scoffed, a rough mocking of his character. Well, there was only one person to blame for his shitty life, and that would be himself. Dazedly, he poured out the last of the vodka from the glass bottle, drunken gaze watching the clear liquid swirl in its container. For now, he could afford to lose a bit of his time and energy to forgetting about everything. Leisure was one of the few aspects of aristocratic life that Daemon accepted- or, in this case, fully embraced.

The pounding in his head was becoming worse by the minute, until Daemon finally realized that it wasn't just his head, but the sound of knocking. So somehow had decided to peek into his misery, so it seemed. A wry smirk pulled at his lips, and he pushed himself off of his desk. The world spun and swirled within his vision, colors and images distorting themselves before his eyes. Somehow, his hand managed to latch onto the door handle, and he swung it open with a violent jerk.

"Someone's here for you, _signore._" It was his landlady, the widow Nagi, her petite figure hidden underneath an old but clean dress and several shawls. Thin strands of purple hair that had escaped the confines of her white cap adorned her sickly pale face. Daemon did not have the tendency to feel any particular sort of attachment to people, but his landlady was a severe wreck of a person- at least, physically so. It was kind of hard to ignore her bad health. Daemon had known her husband years ago and although he did not mourn his death too severely (he wasn't exactly a man to be missed), Nagi did. Up until a few years ago, she had been a wreck. Now, of course, she fared much better, and had gained confidence and self-esteem to a certain degree to match, but was still a bit weak. Not that Daemon would say that in front of her anymore- despite being a kind soul, she could prove to be violent when things she guarded closely were meddled with. She somehow tolerated the unpredictable state of mind Daemon was in, and in turn he made sure to stay out of her way- and out of her petticoats, that was. Daemon had been a bit of a womanizer- still was.

Daemon blinked at the statement, allowing the words to sink through his alcoholic daze. Someone was here. Was it Elena? A sliver of hope shot through the darkness, and Daemon shoved his way past Nagi, drunken legs carrying him down the flight of stairs. Elena. She was practically the only person with his physical address, after all. Ever since he'd been labeled as the black sheep of the Spade family and practically had all ties cut to that name, he'd moved multiple times, more than enough to throw off any of his past correspondents. Elena was one of the only ones who actually knew where he lived. If it wasn't her, then who could it possibly be? "Is it Elena?" Daemon blurted out, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Nagi peered at him through muddled dark lavender eyes. "No, but..." She watched the ghost of a smile wiped from Daemon's face, and then continued. "But you'd best go down, _signore._" There was an unreadable tone in her voice, and Daemon frowned before sighing, lips curling into a calculating smile.

"Does this have to do with your late husband, Nagi darling?" It was a topic rarely mentioned between the two of them, and was to some degree a taboo. Nagi's late husband had dealt with some businesses that even Daemon did not know about, and she never mentioned it in the few years that they shared residence. Large lavender eyes cast their gaze on the floor, and Daemon knew that she had answered in the positive. He left her, knuckles white from clutching at her shawls and standing in front of his doorway as he walked down the hallway.

His boots clacked at a brisk pace down the stairs, and Daemon turned the corner to walk into the sitting room when someone bumped into him. Blonde locks brushed by his nostrils, and Daemon's nostrils were invaded with the faint scent of lilies-of-the-valley. A small gasp of surprise was muffled against Daemon's chest before the other person stepped back, a faint apology at his lips.

"_Mi dispiace_... oh."

Giotto wasn't clumsy. Or that was what he told himself when he did clumsy things. Earlier in life he had been a bit of a klutz, but by now he had managed to get most of it under control. Most of his klutzy-ness, _most_ of the time. So when he had left G (still seasick) in the sitting room of the home to follow the slight-framed young woman who had answered the door but instead found his face buried in what appeared to be a drunkard's chest, he attributed it to his bad luck, if anything else. The smell of liquor invaded his nostrils, and he stumbled back, apology on his lips when he looked up. Dark, fogged eyes met his, and Giotto stumbled back, with the wind- and any words he had on his lips- knocked out of him. Sentences, phrases, words, faded into nothing.

A heavy silence fell between them, one that could not have lasted more than a few seconds or years. Daemon's gaze was fixed on the blonde, dark irises scanning, searching. His gaze fell on the tailored pinstripe suit, the gold chain peeking out of the pocket, the slight shape of the man's face, the curvature of his nose. Dark orange eyes peeked out from beneath light blonde locks that caught the light and refracted them dimly, warmly. Too warmly. Daemon diverted his gaze elsewhere.

"You're Daemon, right?" The man in front of him smiled, and Daemon's confusion rose exponentially. This man knew who he was? Well, then again, a lot of people recognized him. It had been hard to- to court Elena and not know some people from their class. Unlike Elena, Daemon had never quite learned how to hate the aristocracy that he was part of and live among them at the same time. Daemon took a step forward, a throaty laugh escaping him. Uncertainly hung in the air, and then a flash of defiance came over the man's dark orange eyes. "I'll take that as a yes." A hand was put between them, outstretched expectantly. The man's confidence- or arrogance- was laughable.

"Nufufu." Daemon swatted the hand away like it was some bothersome fly. And honestly, this man may as well have been one to him. "Who do you think you are?"

"Mmm, that all depends on you. Let's sit down and talk, shall we?" The blonde man asked, gesturing behind him towards the sitting room.

Daemon eyed him warily. Suspiciously. Alcoholic fog cleared, and his senses slowly returned to him. Who was this, indeed? Was this only petty scum who had somehow gotten hold of his address, or the tip of the iceberg? _Better safe than sorry. _Hands grasped onto the clean white collar, pulling the shorter man off the ground and slamming into the nearest wall. "I do believe," Daemon muttered, lips forming into a smile that his eyes did not match as he leaned in, "that I asked for your name, hmm?"

A distinctive _click_ echoed through the room, and Daemon felt something cold at the back of his head and the presence of someone behind him. The blonde man was looking behind him with a rather exasperated and yet amused expression. "G, you're not going to pull the trigger, right?" A gun. Great. Daemon made himself a mental note to tell Nagi to not let suspicious people in again. This was definitely not your average petty noble who wanted to get on his good side. And who carried guns around as if they were their wallets besides dangerous conmen? But even so... a smirk crept onto his lips. It had been a while since he'd gotten a rush of adrenaline.

Daemon heard a scoff behind him in reply. "From the way this bastard's acting, I just might." The voice was much rougher than the blonde man, and Daemon felt the metal of the barrel dig into the back of his head even more, and his fingers tightened their hold on the blonde man before him. The tiniest of gasps broke the tense air, and Daemon felt the gun force his head forward again.

"Get your hands off Giotto." The tone was no less than threatening, and the threat was very real indeed. But Daemon knew better. He knew the heart of man like no one else did.

Apparently the blonde man assumed so, too. "Put the gun away, G," he said, gaze focused behind Daemon, voice carrying the weight of authority that contradicted his looks entirely. There was a second of hesitance, and then Daemon felt the cold metal leave the back of his head, and then those piercing eyes set back on his as Daemon let go of him and took a step back. "I apologize. I am Giotto. This here is G, my best friend and right-hand man." Giotto gestured to the redhaired man who was placing a silver revolver back into his holster and glaring daggers at Daemon, who merely scoffed jeeringly back. Giotto either didn't notice or pretended not to.

"Nufufu... and what business do _children_ like yourselves have with me?"

Giotto drummed his fingertips on the wall behind him, eyes darting over to his redhaired friend before looking up at Daemon again. "I want you to join our cause."

"And we're not children, for fuck's sake," G muttered under his breath, though Daemon didn't quite hear him. Physically, G would put Daemon's age around twenty-eight or twenty-nine. Mentally... that wasn't a sure bet.

"Your _cause_?"

"Yes." Giotto smiled. "Perhaps we'd best sit down and talk about it."

Daemon found that he didn't have the heart to refuse that look.

- x -

"You're crazy," G muttered as they left, the woman that had let them in waving rather uncertainly at them as they walked along the sidewalk. Barely two feet away, the filthy water of the canal lapped at the banks. The air was a mixture of sea salt, food, and street filth that coupled with the water's filth. "Flipping crazy."

Giotto shrugged indifferently, though a sly smile betrayed him. "Then what are you for following me?"

For a moment, the shade of red G had on his face complimented the shade of his hair. "Stop changing the topic." Giotto gave an innocent smile before turning back around and waving down a nearby gondola. Great, just great. G eyed the gondola like it was to be his ride down the Styx River itself before climbing in after Giotto, who hid his glee well. G hated travelling- especially by water. His stomach didn't even twitch at the bloody remains of opponents on the battlefield, but just the tiniest lurch of the little gondola gave him enough reason to lean over the side and surrender his lunch to the canals of Venice. G could have sworn he heard his best friend snicker at him over the sloshing of water at the sides of the gondola, but he couldn't have been sure. Thankfully, G managed to get hold of his stomach for the most part. "Hey." He grasped the edge of Giotto's dark cloak, turning his attention from the Venetian cityscape. "Why him, of all people?"

"We need him, obviously," Giotto said in a rather matter-of-fact way. "Neither of us know anything about military power. Lampo's still a kid, and... you know how he gets." G knew- the green-haired teenager proved to be something of a wild card out on the battlefield. He was just as likely to hurt allies as well as enemies. But military power? G couldn't quite read into Giotto on that.

"Certainly there's a better choice." Better than that crazy drunkard whose bloodline more than suggested his less-than-sane nature. G could think of half a dozen men that were part of allied families that would lend a hand at handling the new forces Giotto had reluctantly acquired from Cozarto. G had heard the name thrown around too many times in the worst ways possible. Giotto might have been a genius most of the time, but this wasn't one of those times. "Daemon Spade isn't one of them."

Giotto was silent for a minute, lost in deep thought. "We'll see."

G was starting to get a bit irritated at Giotto's insistence. Usually he was more _reasonable_ and less of his stubborn side showed through. And why would he be so tolerating of a man who might as well have choked him to death when they first met? The redhead drummed his fingers on the side of the swaying gondola, a habit of his when he was getting impatient. Giotto only pretended not to see the action as he peered over the edge of the gondola at the canal water. "I don't get why you're so set on him, that's all," G muttered, hands fumbling for his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Giotto had some strange and sometimes rather unpredictable impulses when he acted, but usually there was some motive behind it- like taking the indirect route when traveling by train to get the chance to bump into Cozart at the station or something. Yeah, G was used to that sort of stuff. But Daemon as a close associate, a partner- no, he couldn't make head nor tail of it.

That wasn't to say that Giotto hadn't made strange sections before. There was Ugetsu Asari (or whatever the hell his name was), some musician from Japan whom they didn't get in contact with much at all. But G had to admit that it had been a wise choice, since the Japanese man had a knack for finding connections that the vigilance group needed as it expanded. The annoying kid, Lampo, was a hassle on the battlefield, but once his unpredictability could be put under control, he would be a valuable asset indeed. Knuckle's sources through the Church were admirable, and he had a better hand of calming G down when he was pissed off (which was often). And that left Alaude. G's teeth grinded together in frustration. That bastard might have been a jerkface, but his cold nature kept Giotto realistic and having someone from the other side of the law had its benefits. Yeah, Giotto's choices so far were good. Too good. His dark red eyes trailed over to his best friend, who was trailing his fingers into the canal water idly, wry smile at his lips. Surely he hadn't signed off his soul or anything like that to get _that_ amount of good luck, right?

G's stomach took another dangerous lurch as the gondola swayed to a stop. Giotto hopped off with ease, and G was sure that he saw the sadistic curve the blonde's lips took when he stumbled out. Delicious smells of food merged with the smell of the canal waters before covering it entirely as the two headed back to their hotel. Giotto flipped up the lid of his pocketwatch and glanced at the time before snapping it shut again. "Dinner's in ten minutes. You hungry?"

The hotel was bustling with activity, as usual. Venice was always a busy port, with both goods and people constantly entering and exiting. Giotto and G picked up a quick meal in the hotel restaurant before returning to their room. Giotto had jokingly suggested that they get a room with just a single bed in it, but quickly changed his mind when saw the look on the hotel clerk's face. G closed the door after Giotto entered the room after him, dark crimson eyes scanning the blonde's face as he hummed a cheerful-sounding song to himself and sat down at the only desk in the room. "What is it?"

"We're not going to get anywhere with Daemon." G walked up to his best friend, hand grasping the slim shoulder before him. Giotto shrugged off G's hand passively, hand loosening its hold on the quill he was writing with. "I hope you have another reason for being in Venice than that man."

"I don't." The pen continued its course on the paper. "Unless you count the joy of seeing you turn green on ships."

"Ugh. No, fucktard, that doesn't count." G ignored the playful ring of Giotto's voice. "Do you even _know_ what kind of man that is?"

"Not really," Giotto replied, attention still on the paper in front of him. G was halfway to popping a vein. Giotto was a great person in every way- once you looked past his insane optimism. "Just don't worry about it. He'll change his mind sooner or later." There was only the sound of the quill nib scratching on paper for the next few minutes, and then G's defeated sigh a moment later.

"He better. I'm going for a shower," G muttered, turning around to rummage through his suitcase for something to change into.

Giotto chuckled despite himself as he slipped the paper he was writing on into an envelope. "I won't peek, I promise." There was a string of curses before the bathroom door slammed closed, and Giotto smiled to himself, dropping the envelope into a pocket of his cloak as his gaze cast ouside, where storm clouds rapidly approached the coast from the sea. The sun was setting, but darkness seemed to approach more rapidly than usual. The cool, salty air of the sea swept into the hotel room, and Giotto shivered before slamming the shutters closed, wood hitting wood as the hinges creaked obnoxiously, mockingly.

What the hell was he trying to do again?

_Hire a potentially psychopathic maniac to be a close associate._ Yes, that was what the more logical side of his brain was demanding. That it really wasn't worth it, and that Daemon was sure to be more trouble than he was worth. G was almost always right in his observations, and even Giotto's freelance and tolerable viewpoints couldn't hide the fact that Daemon probably wasn't the best choice. Giotto let out a conflicted sigh before opting to rest for a bit. The mattress was a bit firmer than he would have liked, but it was something, at least. Logic dictated that he return to Tuscany and leave the helpless cause here.

But his obligations- and his guts- were not about to be so easily put aside. His hand grasped at the envelope, and he got up from the bed, jaw set in a determined line as he left the room, heading for the lobby- and the telegraph.

- x -

The friendly buzz of alcohol in his head was slowly turning into a hostile hangover. The smell of dinner floated around the house, and the gentle clinking of china and silverware indicated to Daemon that Nagi was done with making dinner and was probably setting the table. His stomach growled for food, but his mind demanded peace and quiet for thoughts.

And he had quite a lot of thoughts, indeed. He flipped through the book he was attempting to read again, interest in it disappearing as he thought about the day's events. In particular, the offer that the blon de man- Giotto- had made him. _"I want you to join our cause." _His fingers slid over the pages of the book, contemplating through the pangs of pain that were starting to invade his skull. He, a total stranger, had the nerve and idiocy to ask him, Daemon Spade, whose name was nearly as unholy as the devil himself in higher society, to be a close associate.

Giotto was an absolute idiot, and Daemon was not about to join him in his so-called "causes". Petty causes. Keeping people safe- hah! What lies. And Daemon was sick and tired of lies. But then again... were those words lies? The image of Giotto flashed through his head for the umpteenth time, and Daemon couldn't help but grimace. He was dwelling too much on the matter, surely. It was a casual mistake of life to have that happen at all. He'd surely refuse the sorry offer, forget about it, and move on with his life.

If only he could move on in the first place.

"_Signore _Spade? Dinner's ready."

"I'll be out in a moment, Nagi," Daemon bellowed from where he was, clenching his head and nursing his headache with both hands digging into his skull. Nagi saw none of it, however. An hour later, when she went up to urge Daemon to eat something again, there was no reply. Pushing the door open, Nagi found the man slumped forward in his chair, head buried in his arms- and asleep.

"You shouldn't do such things to your health, _signore_," Nagi whispered with an exasperated sigh.

- x -

"Young master, there's a telegraph for you." The maid's heels clicked on the floor as she walked into the room with a small envelope from the telegraph office. The young master, as she had called him, was currently a rather unbecoming slump on the sofa, much of his face buried into a comforter and body underneath a blanket. The only indication that someone was there was the bright green tuff of hair that poked through the layers of comforters and blankets.

The pile of blankets shuffled, and a hand slipped from underneath, waving around before the envelope was hastily put into his hand. "You may go now, Amélie," a muffled voice said, and the maid bowed before leaving the room. She was one of the older servants, one of those used to the Bovino merchant family's peculiarities (which were actually like any other family's, once you took out the fact that they were one of the riches families around Milan). Signore and Signora Bovino were pretty normal for a merchant family- thrifty, sociable, and hardworking- but their son was another story.

Lampo Bovino was an often extravagant young man who spent most of his days sleeping around the (large) family estate simply because he felt like there was nothing better to do. He was, indeed, the definition of a potato couch. Well, a green one, at that, but one nonetheless. Though he had a few good qualities, they were masked underneath the layers of laziness, cowardice, and of course, blankets. It had taken a lot of digging to unearth them- and fortunately for the Bovino heir, Giotto had been quite a stubborn and consistent digger.

The telegraph paper was thrust underneath the blankets for a few moments. There was silence for a minute, and then the room was sent into chaos as the blankets and comforters were suddenly throw up into the air violently, sending a gust of wind that sent important papers flying out the window. A startled Amélie burst into the room just as Lampo was rubbing the sleepiness away from his eyes, hand still clutching at the telegraph. "Young master?"

The green-haired teenager yawned, pulling his arms over his head to stretch out tired muscles. "Prepare a suitcase for me, will you, Amélie?"

"Are you travelling, young master?" Amélie asked. Seems like she wasn't completely aware of the boundaries of the teenager's eccentric behavior (or lack thereof).

"Yare, yare. You ask too many questions. I just need a week's worth of clothing and a ticket to Venice." The teenager ruffled his hair a bit, one eye closed while the other glanced outside at the darkening sky. Just as Amélie was about to leave, however, he spoke again. "Actually, make that two tickets, and call up that crazy bishop too."

Amélie paused on her way to the door before turning around. "You mean... Bishop Knuckle?"

"How many crazy priests do you know, yare?"

- x -

A/N: Thanks to **MintNight-Ly **for dealing with my crappy writing style and being the beta for this fic!  
And here goes another series that I start even though I'm not done with my current fanfics.


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